


Education In The Lovesick Blues

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [23]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara finds a fellow member of staff correcting smutty bathroom graffiti, and it would be impolite not to allow him to check the factual accuracy of what he's amending... especially when it explicitly mentions her.





	Education In The Lovesick Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xXdreameaterXx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/gifts).



> For [Chrissi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/pseuds/xXdreameaterXx), who prompted:
> 
> _I walk in on you correcting people's misspelled bathroom graffiti, Whouffaldi._

Strictly speaking, Clara should have been marking Year Eleven’s essays on Jane Austen, instead of walking the corridors of Coal Hill at the kind of pace that made a snail look speedy. She dawdled and dragged her feet as she went, examining the wall displays that her students had put together, and trying to delay the inevitable: her return to the mountain of work on her desk, most of which was misspelled, scrawled in illegible handwriting, and less that enlightening about her favourite author’s work. She groaned, not relishing the prospect of having to provide constructive criticism that wouldn’t cause her students to cast her as a bitch.

Rounding a corner, she found herself at the entrance to the Sixth Form block, and she ducked inside in an attempt to escape her fate for a few minutes longer. As she headed past banks of bright-blue lockers, trailing her hand along the cool metal, she frowned as she noticed a door that should – by rights – not be open at half past five on a Friday evening. The boys’ toilets should be locked, and yet the door was ajar and she was _almost_ sure that she could hear someone humming from within.

Sighing and resigning herself to having to apprehend a rebellious student who had sought to linger after hours, she looked both ways and ducked inside. After all, it would look strange to any colleagues if they happened to notice her, and frankly she didn’t need that kind of rumour circulating about her. There was already that bizarre one about her ex-girlfriend, and the bikini photograph of her that had _somehow_ been procured from her Facebook page. Teenagers. 

“Hello?” she called, and the humming noise ceased at once. “Hello, who’s there? This isn’t funny. You need to go home. I don’t even know why you’d _want_ to be here on a Friday evening, god knows I don’t.” 

A cubicle door at the end of the row creaked open, revealing a tall, lanky man with silver hair, who had folded himself into the small space and was holding – of all things – a Sharpie, while looking somewhat sheepish. “Me neither.” 

“Are you _graffitiing the toilets_?!” she asked in a shrill voice, incredulous to find an adult engaging in such irresponsible behaviour. “What the hell are you playing at?!” 

“No, I am not graffitiing the toilets,” he said, rolling his eyes as though she had asked an extremely stupid question. “I’m _correcting_ the graffiti.”

“Because that’s _so_ much less weird.” 

“Hey, it’s not my fault these kids can’t spell.” 

“As an English teacher, I take particular umbrage at that insinuation.” 

“You didn’t just have to read a piece of graffiti calling Bex Woodman a ‘slat.’” 

“Wow. OK, fair point.” 

The stranger chuckled, and as Clara’s anger abated, she realised that he was handsome, in an older-man-with-a-faded-sense-of-distinction sort of way. He was wearing a long, burgundy velvet coat that seemed entirely outdated and impractical, coupled with black jeans and – of all things – a pair of Doc Martens, loosely laced and heavily scuffed. _Well, he’s eccentric,_ she thought to herself, although not unkindly. _I mean, like I hadn’t already figured that out from him correcting bathroom graffiti._

“It’s pretty shocking. I didn’t think she’d appreciate being called a piece of wood.” 

“I don’t think she’d appreciate being called a slut either,” Clara raised her eyebrows. “But I suppose your grammatical and lexical intentions are commendable.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t you teach here?” Clara asked, realising the stranger seemed dimly familiar. She leaned against the cubicle door and affixed him with a long look, trying to work out which department he’d teach in based purely on his bizarre taste in clothes. “History?” 

“John Smith. Physics department,” he informed, shifting from foot to foot and capping his pen. He shrugged, evidently attempting to look modest. “And sometimes chemistry. It depends on whether they want to blow anything up.” 

“I guess that explains why I’ve not seen you around much,” she laughed. “You scientists don’t socialise with us mere mortals. Too busy causing explosions and debating string theory, or whatever else it is that you lot do. Oh, and correcting bathroom graffiti.” 

“Exactly,” he said, with a maddening degree of smugness that really _shouldn’t_ have been as attractive as it was. _Bad idea, Oswald,_ a voice in Clara’s head warned. _Very bad idea._ “All very important jobs.” 

“Correcting bathroom graffiti should really fall under _my_ remit,” Clara observed, knowing she was getting dangerously close to flirting with him. “Not yours.” 

The stranger snorted, gesturing towards the piece of graffiti he’d been focusing his efforts on. “Well, this is incredibly uncouth. It might offend your delicate female sensitivities.” 

Clara let the sexist remark slide as she leaned forward to read the aforementioned slogan scrawled on the cubicle wall, turning a fiery shade of red as she did so.

“See? You look offended by the language.” 

“No, urm… it’s not that.” 

"Is it the terrible spelling?”

“No.” 

“What is it, then?”

“ _I’m_ Miss Oswald.” 

“Oh,” his eyes widened, and he looked from the graffiti to her chest and then up at her face. A smirk settled over his features, and she felt her cheeks darken further. Why did she have such a thing for arrogant men? Especially older ones? It was deeply unhelpful. “And do you?” 

She blinked at him for a second, taken aback by his nerve. “Do I what?” she asked after a moment, raising an eyebrow flirtatiously. “Please expand.” 

“Have a great pair of tits?” 

“Well,” she giggled. If he wanted to flirt, then two could play at that game. “I would say so, but I suppose I would give a biased answer, wouldn’t I?” 

“Would you?” 

“Well, they’re my tits.” 

He blinked at her casual use of the term, the smirk dropping from his features for half a second. “Right,” he said, grinning wolfishly, his eyes now fixed on her chest. “So they are.” 

“I suppose I’d have to ask an objective third party,” Clara shrugged, widening her eyes as she looked up at him with the most innocent expression she could manage. “You know, to gain an impartial judgement, and ensure that the correction of such graffiti was therefore grounded in factual accuracy.” 

“Umm,” John managed, turning red as he realised what she was hinting at. “Yes, I suppose you would.” 

“Seeing as you’re here,” Clara tipped him a wink, and began to undo her blouse in a determined attempt to see how far she could push this awkward yet maddeningly attractive man. “Why don’t you check?”

“Miss Oswald, I couldn’t possibly… I don’t think you should… it would be…” 

“Shh,” she soothed, slipping the patterned fabric from her shoulders and watching his eyes pop in wonder as he looked down at her cleavage. The marker pen dropped from his hand and rolled away a short distance as he gaped, lost for words in a way that Clara found supremely satisfying. It was always a superb boost to her ego to know that she still had that effect on men. “Opinion?”

“They’re…” he began, in a slightly strangled tone. “A really great pair of tits, yep.”

“Glad you think so,” she purred. “But then again, that is them in a bra. I suppose without a bra they might look quite different.”

Before John could say anything, she had undone her bra and removed it, draping it over her shoulder and resisting the urge to smirk overly widely.

John made a strangled squeaking noise, and then seemed to short-circuit entirely. 

“Now, Mr Smith,” she said in a kind voice. “I know you scientists learn best through practical experiments, so you’ll probably need to get hands on.” 

John looked as though he couldn’t believe his luck as he reached out and cupped a breast in each hand. Clara hissed lightly as his cold hands came into contact with her skin, and he mumbled an apology, retracting them and rubbing them together a few times before returning to his previous endeavour, cupping them reverently. 

“They’re…” he said in wonder, running a thumb over each nipple and eliciting a small moan from Clara. “They’re incredible.” 

“Would you say, then, that the graffiti is accurate?” 

“Very.” 

She leaned over and kissed him, short and sweet, then crouched down and retrieved the pen from where it had fallen. Slipping her blouse on, but tucking her bra into the pocket of her skirt, she crouched down and changed _Miss Oswald has grate tits_ to _Miss Oswald has gr **eat** tits, _ then drew an arrow and added _I agree._

“You know, that’s just outright vandalism.” 

“What are you gonna do about it? Spank me?” she asked, tipping John a wink. 

“I… urm…” he blinked, still visibly in shock from her disrobing. “Maybe.” 

“We’ll have to do that next week,” she clicked her tongue. “Essays to mark, that sort of thing.” 

Tucking the marker pen into John’s top pocket, she patted it and then danced out of the toilets and back to her classroom, grinning and feeling substantially less bored by the prospect of robbing John of his higher brain functions again next week under the guise of science. 

If any of her male students on Monday seemed confused about why their English teacher’s handwriting had appeared on the walls of their toilets, none of them said anything. 

They seemed much more interested about the fact that _Miss Oswald is a grate shag_ had been scrawled above the sink. 

In Mr Smith’s handwriting.


End file.
